


Give In, Oh Sweet Surrender

by Inane_Rational



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-30
Updated: 2010-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-23 13:55:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/251056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inane_Rational/pseuds/Inane_Rational
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur arrives in Ealdor at the start of Camelot's war campaign into Cenred's kingdom.  Merlin catches his eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give In, Oh Sweet Surrender

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my betas: sheswatching, binglejells, and crabby_lioness on LJ

//^\\\ **SEVENTEEN YEARS** //^\\\

 _‘Don’t fight back. Just let them take what they want.’_

This was one of the first lessons Merlin learned growing up in Ealdor, a small village residing on the outlaying borders of Cenred’s kingdom. Merlin’s been told that the village was too insignificant, compared to the vital affairs of the kingdom. Merlin understood that King Cenred did not care for Ealdor and its troubles.

Growing up, Merlin had seen more raiders tramping through Ealdor, than Cenred’s knights or soldiers. At every harvest the raiders would come and demand food. On rare occasions the raiders would stay for days inside the village, taking over homes, women, and sometimes men, along with their harvest. As it became prominent that Cenred would send no one to Ealdor’s rescue, the raiders began to rule their village as kings. One after another.

Merlin’s lifetime had witnessed many different groups making a stake for Ealdor, while the tiny village’s inhabitants couldn’t fight back. Otherwise, they’d be decimated. And if they’d won, more would come anyway.

Merlin was the result of a raid.

He understood that he wasn’t a choice his mother made. _Don’t fight back_. That his mother didn’t have a choice to begin with. _Just let them…_. And still his mother had kept him. _…take what they want._ He learnt about the circumstances of his birth, continually asking his mother about his father. Hunith, at those times, could only look away in shame. He didn’t understand, but those that looked at him with disdain forced the truth onto him.

Maybe they looked at him with apprehension because he wouldn’t completely yield to the raiders--he was always in trouble. Merlin would like to think _that_ , instead of them fearing his natural talents which weren’t natural at all. Merlin never revealed it, kept it secret. Yet, by a manner of human instincts, somehow his difference easily set them away from him. His mother died when he was fourteen, trying to protect him when he wouldn’t give in. His first lesson finally stuck with the pain of loss.

The villagers didn’t know what to do with him, so they did nothing. Merlin stayed in his small home the first weeks. His only friend, Will, would help him at the beginning until he regained his footing. He began working in the fields, harvested the grain, and continually provided towards any whims the raiders had.

When Merlin was seventeen, Ealdor had seemed to gain a stable ‘ _ruler_.’ The leader, Kanan, established the village as his, after fighting off every other raiding group within the area. So instead of unwilling providers of many, they were now slaves for one. Their homes were no longer theirs, taken as residency by Kanan’s men. Will had left in the beginning of the ‘rule,’ had killed one of the raiders in the process. Kanan killed five people as an example, and Merlin was happy he said “no” to Will’s offer of escape.

Merlin had grown accustomed to one raider in particular: Osric. The man had taken a fancy to Merlin, making use of his home and body, whenever the group returned from attacks on other villages. At this point in life, Osric wasn’t Merlin’s ‘first,’ yet it was the first time that the ‘ _partnership_ ’ had been steady. If he dared think of it that way.

Merlin thought all of this while Osric fucked him from behind, unperturbedly wondering when the next ‘ruler’ would take Kanan’s place.

 

//^\\\THE FIRST//^\\\

Day One

He woke up to a shock of pain as a knee slammed into his side and tumbled him out of bed, hitting the side of his face onto the hard, compact ground. Merlin cradled a hand to his cheek, tasting the metal of blood in his mouth and watched Osric scramble for his clothes. The sounds of a battle could be heard outside. The clash of metal and the guttural cries carried easily through the open cut-holes, covered by wooden grates on the side of the hut.

Merlin simply stayed on the ground and watched Osric join the combat, wrenching the door open, sword in hand. It had been three years since Kanan swept in to rule Ealdor as his own. The start of those years proved to other raiders what Kanan and his men were capable of. The rest were quiet in comparison, his life as Osric’s prize had been rather content, if Merlin didn’t do anything to anger him. The discernible sounds of violence were too much of interest for Merlin’s curiosity. He wanted to see which way the tide of battle went. He quickly gathered the blanket around his naked frame and rushed to peek through the grates.

He couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing at first. He was expecting another group of raiders, the same leather armoury and black eye masks. Instead, the gleam of metal blinded him, and Merlin began to understand that these weren’t raiders that had invaded. These invaders were soldiers, or knights—an army. A man on horse raced by, the flutter of a red flag caught his eyes, yet the symbol was indistinguishable amongst the movement of victory. There was no doubt about who would lose as Kanan’s men were decimated. Merlin could see Kanan on the ground, the flow of blood running away from him. It was chaos.

Merlin startled away from the window as Osric flung open the door and slammed it shut behind him. He could see the streaks of blood on the raider’s shirt and arm, most of the blood was probably Osric’s. Both of them knew the outcome of today’s battle and they stared at each other not saying a word; Merlin internally questioned the raider, ‘what are you going to do now?’ In return, Osric watched him, wondering what he wanted to do with his prize. One certainty Merlin had about Osric was his possessiveness.

Osric’s decision was made clear as the raider stalked forward and grabbed Merlin by the arm. Merlin eyed the sword in Osric’s hand with the apprehension of an oncoming demise. He almost let out a plea when the raider dragged him to the bed, pushing him to get on top. The action would have been usual if the circumstances had been different. Merlin tried to sit down; except he was forced to stand as his arm was yanked upwards. He reeled from realization as Osric opened the window shutters above the bed. They were escaping and Merlin didn’t have a choice but to follow along. Osric was actually taking Merlin with him.

Merlin collapsed naked onto the ground, his blanket thrown down onto him as Osric aggressively told him to move aside. He barely avoided getting crushed, rolling away with the blanket in tow. He had even less time to cocoon himself when Osric ran for the hills towards the forest, his hand clenched tightly on his arm. Merlin allowed himself to be dragged along. If he needed to escape, he could later on when he had the chance. He could use his magic to distract the raider and make a run for it.

Osric yanked on his arm whenever Merlin would almost trip with the blanket beneath his feet. He could feel the joints pull and scream. They were almost to the top of the hill, to the sprouting cover of trees, when Osric screamed out in pain. Merlin had heard the whistle of the arrow before he saw the fletching sticking out of the Osric’s back. The raider’s body swayed before falling back onto Merlin. The momentum caused him to lose his balance, and they roughly tumbled downwards. He lost the blanket early on allowing the grass to freely prick his skin, while new aches and pains were added onto his body.

When everything stopped, Merlin found himself looking at the cloudless sky, the weight of Osric’s body on his legs. His heart ricocheted in his chest as he scrambled to get the weight off him. Merlin could see the arrow was protruding at a different angle. The puncture point seeped red. He stood unsteadily on his legs, looking down at Osric.

Merlin couldn’t feel anything for his former master (or partner)—whatever Osric wanted him to be. He felt guilt, not for Osric’s death, but the lack of feeling for a man that was three years of his life. He admitted he wasn’t treated badly, as long as he didn’t do anything too wrong. Yet a companionship of three years--he thought it should produce some sort of feeling: anger, grief, or even joy.

Of course, he was reminded by the increasing sound of thunder that someone had won today’s battle, and to the victor goes the spoils. Merlin turned around to see a galloping steed carry its rider towards him. The image the man made was remarkable, and would stay with him, even if this army were to be defeated in its campaign of war. There was a gleam of blood-streaked armour rapidly arriving upon him, with a crossbow in one hand and the other in the reins. His hair was the colour of the sun, and his handsome face spoke bravery, authority, and pride.

Merlin waited, as the man to neared him and Osric. He was uncertain about the knight. He must have made an image himself: a nude, skinny male baring nothing but bruises, standing at the bottom of a hill beside the dead body of a raider. If the crossbow suggested anything, this man was most likely the one to have killed Osric. Merlin wondered if he should consider this man his ‘saviour.’

The horse slowed to a trot as it came closer, before it stopped a few feet away from him. No words were spoken between them. The man gave him a cursory glance as though he was nothing, before settling on Osric. Merlin looked down at himself and couldn’t miss the red handprint on his upper left arm—a forming bruise that would fade away eventually.

He went to touch Osric’s mark, and found the man’s blue eyes were swiftly moved back to him, as though he was a danger to be assessed. Merlin tracked the man’s eyes as they moved over him more observantly. They were taking note of his bruises, the handprint, and whatever else raiders, soldiers, _and_ knights would look for. When the examination was done with, he was still watching Merlin and he found himself disconcerted by the stare. The man’s eyes gave nothing of a leer. In fact, they were almost dismissive.

There was an irrational anger growing within him. He’d like to think of it as an unachieved rebellion working to spread throughout his mind and body. If this man thought these bruises were nothing—what did he know?

“You could have hit me,” he said in a stern tone.

He must have sounded like a petulant child to the ‘saviour.’ Instead of the expected awe of surprise, Merlin found himself receiving a guffaw, which tumbled into mocking laughter. His simmering anger re-etched carved memories: the raiders that had him strip, made him bark like a dog, mewl at their feet, lick their boots, and act like their stupid pet, before Osric would take him away laughing with them. He’d be thrown into bed with mirth, fucked him likewise, called him a good boy—because that’s what he was, is, am, supposed to be.

Merlin was furious, wrath coursing through him that charged his body forward to throw a punch. Of course, the knight was on his horse and Merlin could only get his thigh. But then he grabbed him to bring him down to his level, and they both fell to the ground. Merlin only got two uncoordinated strikes of his hand, though he wished he got five, before the man easily pinned him to the ground. The knight was obviously more trained in combat than a village boy could ever be. Merlin was delighted to fight him tooth and nail, until two separate hands held him still between them, lifting him up, and roughly dragging him away. Beyond his fury, he barely heard the knight say, “Wait, let him go.” The command made his rage subside a little. His rebellion withdrew altogether as the two hands on either side loosened, but had not yet released.

Merlin stilled, thinking his moment of irrationality was going to get him killed. The knight’s leather-clad hands tipped his chin to meet his eyes; obviously not a mere knight, but a commander perhaps. He felt himself still even more, beginning to see something in those eyes. It riled him, but not enough to unleash his control. He could only be thankful that his magic didn’t make a presence. The man repeated the same instruction to his men, and took his hand away as he stepped back. Merlin felt himself drop to the ground on his knees and arse. The man continued to view him with that look, and Merlin had to turn away with a muddle of emotions stirring within. He would call the look pity, and say that he didn’t want it, but he’d never received it before.

 

He watched the proceedings of the village from his window, the ruckus of his bed left unattended. The sun was starting to set, and the bodies of the raiders were being piled on the outskirts, ready to burn before predators were attracted. The view of the fire was blocked by the amounts of tents erected around the village. A wall of soldiers and knights encircled the small village of Ealdor, a rest stop before the war campaign continued in full force. Merlin thought the numbers would be bigger if a kingdom would go to war with another, not fifty armed men.

Over the last hours, Merlin learned that the army belonged to Camelot, and the man he had raged against was their prince— _Prince Arthur of Camelot_. Thus to say, Ealdor had a new king. Merlin and the other villagers weren’t sure what to make of Prince Arthur’s declaration when he gathered them to the village center. Instead, they stayed silent looking at one another and waited.

It was strange knowing your home was _yours_. None of the knights and soldiers took over their homes, though a few optimists did offer their hospitality in recognition of their freedom. The rest of them, including Merlin, were still wary about the invaders. Of course, Kanan’s former dwelling was commandeered by the Prince: a home that belonged to a town, more so than a village. Its construction was at Kanan’s demand shortly after his take-over. In that sense, it was fitting for the royal to use that lodging.

A knock on his door jolted him from his thoughts. There was a soldier at his door, possibly a knight. “The Prince requests your presence.” Merlin stared perplexed at the man before mumbling out an agreement. He recalled the Prince’s pompous and arrogant posture (that laugh and that look), and imagined this was less of a request and more of a demand.

“Can you give me a few minutes?” He didn’t know what his Highness wanted, but he thought he might as well prepare himself.

 

The sun was gone when Merlin stepped outside to be lead to Kanan’s cottage—Arthur’s lodging. Merlin had never been inside before, the women of the village confiding in him about less than pleasant experiences. If he shivered from their tales, he was allowed to.

The knight, who surprisingly introduced himself as Sir Bryce on the short walk there, opened the door for Merlin. The door closed behind him as he stepped past the threshold. The Prince was leaning against the dining table, looking out the window. Similar to Merlin’s home, yet larger and covered with wooden shutters rather than grates. The place itself was fairly larger than his home. There even seemed to be a door leading to a separate room, which could only be the bedroom. In its appearance, it was also more lavish. (The luxury was probably nothing for the Prince). On the table was a small provision of bread, fruit, and meat. Merlin noted that it came from their stocks of food, or at least the raiders, so it belonged to Camelot’s army now. More than half the food was stolen from other villages, Ealdor nicely in the center of them all. Most of the goods he had never tasted, watching Osric eat them, getting the flavour of the meals when his mouth was plunged with Osric’s lips and tongue.

The Prince continued to sip from his goblet of wine, while Merlin obtusely studied the room. The man didn’t do anything but drink from the goblet, as though he had nothing else to look at and nothing to do. Hadn’t the Prince ask for him? Merlin was beginning to lose his patience when he was unceremoniously told to strip in that commanding tone. Shock was quickly overridden by his frown, irked by this man again. Arthur—prince or not, he was just a man—wouldn’t even look his way. And it bothered him because Arthur was not giving hints to why he was here. Merlin could only think of that ugly laugh in the fields behind his hut. That Arthur had something he wanted to ‘teach’ him. Yet if this was sexual (if Arthur wanted him) he’d rather have the royal prat face him.

So, Merlin stood there not moving. He disobeyed. This lack of obedience caught Arthur’s attention well enough. He turned, setting down his goblet on the table and quirked an eyebrow at him. “Did you hear what I said?”

The tone of irritation was one that Merlin didn’t care for. He was looking at him now with annoyed acknowledgment. Merlin began to strip off his clothes, unashamed of the Arthur’s eyes. Merlin felt that he was winning _something_ when Arthur looked away, his conceited composure failing. So he easily complied with Arthur’s clipped order to position himself at the table.

It took more time, before Arthur would come near him. The heat of a body was behind him as one hand pressed down onto his lower back and travelled up his spine, pausing after every small action he made. Merlin didn’t understand Arthur’s need to draw out this affair.

The hand was travelling down his spine when Arthur asked, “Why did that man try to run with you?”

The question was unexpected. Why did it matter? Merlin wasn’t going to divulge about his relations with Osric, he wasn’t in the mood to express his thoughts to someone who wouldn’t care. “Can’t ask him now, can you?” Merlin retorted softly.

Again, his response was met with silence. He’d let Arthur think what he wanted to think, and not give him anything more. All the while the man continued to examine the bumps of his spine, bones pressing outwards beneath the skin. Merlin wondered what he was trying to find. His body should say enough about his relations with Osric.

When Arthur’s hand slid down between the cheeks of his arse, the movement was familiar, and Merlin felt he was back to accustomed expectations. He should have known that Arthur would subvert his common encounter, the surprise as he said, “You prepared yourself?” His finger pressed lightly to the oiled entrance Merlin had readied moments before . Suddenly, Arthur’s hands were no longer on him as he made a tiny step back.

“Yes,” Merlin hesitated to say. The silence was becoming unnerving, and he wondered if he should say more, but Arthur returned in strength. His arse was fully pressed against and a hard line made itself recognized. He didn’t even hear Arthur unlace his breeches. After that, the trepidation and silence made way for possession and noise. Merlin was bent over the table, hands gripping the sides, as Arthur fucked him from behind, digging his hips into the table-top’s edge with every drive forward. It was quick and done expediently. When Arthur finished inside of him, he was left panting heavily onto Merlin’s back, warming the skin just below the neck.

It was awhile before he slipped out and fixed his attire to proper order, while cum slid down Merlin’s thighs. His hands trailed up Merlin’s back once again. The fingers trailed to the side, settled on Osric’s bruise, the form of a hand on his arm.

“Dress,” Arthur commanded, stepping away from him.

Merlin eased off the table and got dressed. In the periphery of his vision, he watched Arthur pick at the array of food on the table, adding more wine to his goblet. The candle light easily showed the light sheen of sweat on Arthur’s face, and his stance was more languid. He could feel his tunic sticking to his back, the wetness between his cheeks and the half-hard state of arousal in his breeches.

“My lord,” he said with the quality of an insult, ungracefully bowing. Merlin didn’t wait for a reply before he left the cottage.

 

Day Two

“Really?”

“No one,” Editha, an acquaintance (and maybe friend) said with astonishment, “Do you think things will actually be better?”

Merlin didn’t say anything about last night to the girl. He was the only person in the village called for. None of the girls were taken forcefully, or propositioned by the knights and soldiers. If they were, they wouldn’t fight, it wasn’t who they were. The men of Camelot must have known that, so why not if it would be so easy? On the other hand, the night before may not have been that easy.

He left Editha to stew in his own thoughts, trying to make sense of the coming changes, a possible new kingdom to be held under.

Merlin waited for the knock on his door that evening. He didn’t have any indication if he was to be expected. Arthur wasn’t fitting into his norm about ‘rulers,’ invaders, and everything that had happened in Ealdor, because of a non-existent King. He was lying on his bed when Sir Bryce fetched him.

 

When Merlin entered, it was exactly like yesterday. It was the same tableau of the setting sun, and Arthur’s inward gaze, a wine goblet in hand.

Unlike yesterday, he didn’t wait for Arthur’s command. The Prince paused, goblet to his mouth, watching him undress without prompt. Again, Merlin wished he knew what the man was thinking. He understood lust, yet Arthur looked at him with a simple pensive gaze.

He placed himself at the table as before, forehead pressed down against the grains, and the wood cool against his body. He was prepared to wait, while simultaneously hoping that the prince wouldn’t take long to use his body. It could be quick and efficient, without the pensive gazing and cautious strokes.

Yet the man kept overturning his expectations, because Arthur’s warm touch soon followed. Those hands palmed his hips, traced the bruising at the front—the repetition of hitting the table’s edge. Arthur wasn’t hesitant as he pressed his fingers to feel the slick oil Merlin prepared with. There was even less time for Arthur to unlace his breeches and push in.

Merlin grappled at the sides of the table when Arthur filled him. It wasn’t slow, but the thrust wasn’t as hard as last night. He was being pressed into the table as Arthur draped across his back, his mouth just between his shoulders, and both hands were kept at the front of his hips. The Prince wasn’t waiting, as though Merlin had issued the challenge (and maybe he did) when he undressed as Sir Bryce closed the cottage door.

Arthur’s hands stopped Merlin from hitting the edge with every forward push, or maybe it was because of the softer thrust. When Arthur completed inside him, it was the same as yesterday, except he left the room when Merlin began to redress. As he shrugged on his clothes, his mind was clogged with the night’s turn of events. He jumped a little when Arthur came up from behind, turning Merlin around and pressing a small jar into his hand.

“I see that your village doesn’t have a physician,” Arthur rasped. He pushed his fingers into Merlin’s open breeches to touch the bruising again. “This should heal faster with the salve.”

Everything else in that moment became nothing except the cool jar in his hand and the fingers on his hip. He barely remembered being gently pushed out the door, his breeches somehow tied. “My lord,” Merlin jumbled out before leaving.

On the small walk back to his hut, he could still feel the initial coolness of the jar, even if his grip must have warmed the liquid and glass.

When Merlin was safely in bed, he blushed, thinking of his mother’s disapproval about his manners.

 

Day Three

“Why?” He was being rutted into on the bed.

The day had been normal as everyone attempted to assemble their lives. He talked a few moments with Editha, and with the other village women, though stilted. Again, he was the only one. Merlin needed to understand.

He had been biting the pillow to keep his moans in his throat while Arthur didn’t give any pretence with his grunts and groans. Merlin tried to remember if Arthur had someone guarding the door.

Arthur made the first move this time, dragging him to the bedroom and threw him down onto the bed, told him to undress as he did so himself. This he was used to: rough and hard, that left him gasping as he was smothered down.

Those hands worked themselves over his bruise, the smell of the salve potent between them, all the while making new bruises and the old ones more pronounced. The Prince wasn’t unscathed from yesterday either. Merlin noticed the slight difficulty Arthur had holding his sword, training the knights near the village. Everyone went to watch, in awe of one man’s commands and the synchronicity of the army that followed. It was hard not to compare Arthur to Kanan and see the differences, the distinction between respect, fear, and loyalty. Osric had made a run for it, and Merlin wondered how many of the raiders had tried as well.

Everything was changing in Ealdor. Merlin noticed the mood lifting with each day, with every helping hand the Prince and his soldiers provided. It was too soon to tell a sceptic would say, yet their days of oppression were undeniably absent. Their fears still existed, one that Merlin unknowingly caused--some of the village women asked if he was alright, providing for Arthur’s pleasure for two nights in a row. He understood very clearly what they wanted to know: was it just going to be him? The army’s leader took him to bed and they were waiting for these men to turn on them. Merlin didn’t know if he should have reassured them because he felt that every step he took, Arthur was taking two.

So Merlin asked “Why,” between the creaks of the bed’s wooden frame. Arthur paused ever so slightly, before continuing his tempo, panting in his ear and driving against that same spot that kept pushing him closer to an edge. Merlin didn’t think he was going to answer until Arthur said in a disjointed manner, “There’s just something about you Merlin. I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

Those words. Merlin couldn’t stop thinking about them. He went to bed that night listening to Arthur’s voice repeat the sentence. It went over and over, he turned it this way and that, and Merlin still didn’t understand what Arthur was saying. It left something warm to grow in his chest and the taste of sweet honey Arthur had eaten for supper.

 

Day Four

The night was a repetition of the night before, with the exception that Arthur kept him close, sharing his space. He draped himself along Merlin’s back, an arm wrapped around his waist pulled him back upon the thrust, and each spark stirred towards gratification. He could feel a pressing need in his abdomen, wrapping itself tighter and tighter within, waiting to release and explode. Merlin’s mouth was full of the linen sheets, successfully muffling himself by biting into the bed.

Merlin was waiting for the next shift. The next thing Arthur could do to offset him. So he shouldn’t have been surprised to feel one hand riding up his chest, lifting his head from the bed, pressing upon his throat, a thumb soothing him with upward strokes by his Adam apple.

‘Just let them take what they want,’ he thought to himself.

The first moan was shy, which embarrassed him, because he couldn’t be shy. Not from something he’d done for the past days (months and years). The second, third, fourth, were a little louder, and more courageous. He could blame Arthur for making it easier, positioning himself like before in order to make him stir, twist and twitch. It hit him just right, and much deeper, pushing him outwards beyond the small area of the bed. He moaned and cried out, because Arthur wanted his voice. He got louder as it felt better—something was getting better.

 

Day Five

Merlin was sure everyone was looking at him. He’d received smirks from various women in the village, while the men stayed resilient to give nothing away, though it did nothing to hide the tinge of red in their cheeks. Editha had the gall to ask, “How’s the prince been treating you?” She then winked and walked away. He flustered with the pail in his hands, water sloshing out the rim. Merlin wondered if he gave too much last night, despite the rule he’d been taught. Because he didn’t know it was possible.

He’s almost resolute to stay inside on his own bed when Arthur’s guard came knocking. “The whole village heard me.” He _tried_ not to make it sound like a complaint. The effort was there at least.

“Did they?” Arthur merely closed the door, saying nothing more, obviously aware of Merlin’s day. The man was truly a sadistic bastard. If Merlin knew that was Arthur’s intent, maybe he shouldn’t have given in so readily. He could have put up a fight like the first day they met, but that was a bout of insanity he shouldn’t encourage.

Merlin looked at the table of food, frowning at the sizeable amount. “Am I early?”

“Are you calling me a pig? Sit down,” Arthur ordered, taking his own seat at the table. The only other chair was right across from Arthur.

This was very different from their routine; more so than a rough thumb urging him to release his cries of pleasure into the night. His limbs stuttered to follow the simple order, which gave Arthur a reason to laugh in amusement. He sat down begrudgingly.

The next minutes proceeded with Arthur giving him sips of wine, and samples of salty meat. Was it a possible attempt to sate him for last night? Yet Arthur wasn’t a man of apologies. So maybe it was about tonight instead, because Merlin now understood that the more nights they spent together, the more Arthur wanted from him.

The dinner passed with a comfortable silence. Then, when the wine made him warm and the meat filled his hunger, Arthur dragged him towards the bedroom at a leisurely pace. His hands wandered beneath Merlin’s tunic. He didn’t lift a hand to undress himself, content for Arthur to undo the laces of his tunic and trousers. He was soon bared upon Arthur’s bed, the prince fully clothed above him, made use of his mouth. Arthur’s lips moved upon his own, a warm tongue enticed Merlin’s to move along with it.

Later, in their almost lazy affair, they were laying on their sides, Arthur’s chest pressed to Merlin’s back. Three fingers were pushing in and out of Merlin, and a hand was wrapped around his length. He voiced his displeasure (and pleasure), but the heat at his back didn’t respond with a faster pace. Merlin needed it now. It was more than simple want. The slow pressure wasn’t enough to take him anywhere.

He rolled his hips back into Arthur’s fingers, feeling them go much deeper than before. Arthur’s moan was booming right in his ear, and soon a feverish length quickly replaced those breaching fingers; the hand on Merlin was pulling a leg up towards his chest. The pushes went deeper, both of them rolling their hips towards and away from each other in tandem.

“Arthur,” he whispered, for once in all his life freely giving in. Merlin listened to the hitch of breath by his ear, felt Arthur leverage himself up so he was pressing down into him even more. His chest was pressed a bit more firmly into the mattress, both of them only slightly on their sides. Arthur’s body blanketed him.

He couldn’t push back in this position, and let Arthur take him instead. He allowed for those pushes and pulls to orchestrate his pulse, his gasp for breath, the groans breaking from his throat, the sweat that refused to cool him, and the tip of his length dragging against the mattress. “Arthur,” he called again, and again, entwined with the increasing moans of each passing second.

He was being consumed.

 

Day Six

He didn’t go back to his own cold bed. He stayed the night, and woke up to a warm hand on his hip sliding up to the indentation of his ribs. The sensation tickled, and he squirmed under the touch. He looked over his shoulder at the blue eyes capturing his own. They stayed like that for a while until Merlin laid on his back, presenting himself to Arthur as some sort of prize. Yet he thought that he _was_ the prize, and that Arthur, lengths ahead of him, had been coaxing him towards this. Merlin didn’t know what ‘ _this_ ’ was.

They stayed in the bed for most of the morning, with Arthur rocking into him deep and hard. Eventually, the prince had to complete his duties, and left him to keep the bed warm. Merlin stayed there for the better part of the day: lazy, languid, and satisfied.

Arthur came back at dusk. Merlin was ready in his own duties; it was probably the last thing he could give to Arthur, an indulgence of his own cravings, though Arthur is pent up as much as him. Their coupling was violent. Merlin had violence inflicted upon him before, but he’d never gotten to inflict back: nails dragged down backs, and bites into muscled flesh. Arthur inflicted his own mark, if not more than previous nights.

In the midst of their heated tussle, Merlin was released from Arthur’s grip. He blinked dazedly as Arthur crossed the room, rummaging through a small sack in the corner. He watched as Arthur took a single piece of string, cutting it to a length with his knife. It only became more wondering (and fascinating) as the prince reached down to fasten the length of string around himself. A twinge of nerves rattled him, because Merlin didn’t know or understand what was going to happen next.

“What are you doing?” He almost laughed with how breathless he sounded.

“Little trick I learned,” Arthur supplied, marching back, engorged and tied.

“From who?” Merlin asked, reaching for him.

“Always with the questions.” Arthur pushed Merlin onto his back, hard enough for him to bounce upon the bed. Merlin didn’t know what to think about Arthur’s trick. He felt silly, the buzz of trepidation in his head, because this was something new—there was a trick he didn’t know. He watched and felt Arthur soothe his tension with kisses. A calloused hand rubbed at the muscles between his thigh and groin. The feel of it rushed to his head, as well as below, and Merlin felt comfortable placing himself in Arthur’s hands. He trusted him. The man hadn’t done any wrong so far.

The hand massaging near his groin gradually moved, pressing against Merlin’s opening, always checking Merlin’s preparation. He was soon groaning at the filling ache of Arthur’s ardour and the set of a steady tempo he’s seen Arthur achieve in the ferocity of mock combats with his men, matching them, then winning. He gave as much as Arthur did: rocking to the thrust, and shaking the walls and the night’s silence with his voice.

After much time, Merlin’s throat became rasp with his cries, his body shook for release, and Arthur continued to thrust in at an increasing pace and strength. His face looked to be in pain, searching for the same release Merlin desired and was reaching.

Farther. Up.

Breaking. Shaking.

Burning. Arching.

 _Coming_.

The shakes persisted as Arthur continued his pursuit of bliss, and Merlin mewled in pain from over-sensation. Yet, the pain eventually began to mix with the pleasure, and soon he was bowing underneath a second wave. Merlin understood the trick now, as he tried to ride Arthur out—the man riding him. He railed from the combination of pleasure and pain, clung to the sweat-glistened body above him, and vengefully marked with teeth and nails. The explosions of sensation running up his spine weren’t enough for Merlin to feel Arthur’s hand reach down between them. He blurrily watched the strings undoing with just the smallest of tugs and suddenly Arthur’s body was taut. Merlin panted, his body languid from exhaustion, and felt the flood of warmth inside him. Arthur gave one tired moan before collapsing upon him. Merlin couldn’t help but feel as though he was cradling him: welcoming and affectionate.

It was this moment he finally understood that he may have given Arthur all he could possibly give.

 

Day Seven

He woke up alone in Arthur’s bed, the muffled sound of voices beyond the closed bedroom door, a cacophony coming from the window. Merlin sat up, wrapping the blanket around his torso. The morning was getting colder, the tell-tale sign of the oncoming winter. He’d need to gather firewood in preparation.

It was unusually noisy for the morning. He would have thought he’d over slept, yet the light coming through the cracks of the window wasn’t bright enough for noon. Merlin peeked through the shutter slits, and saw soldiers carrying sacks, and preparing their horses. The camp was active as they tore it down, packing to go, and readying for war. Arthur had a kingdom to expand.

Laughter cut his thoughts of impending war. The sound was abnormal to Merlin amongst the clatter outside. Merlin was curious enough to tip-toe towards the bedroom door, kneeling on the ground and pressing his ear to the wood. He imagined he could make out which voice was Arthur’s amongst those that were talking. There was a light quality to the conversation, one of jokes and friendly taunts. But then the voices switched to scuffles of chairs, and men following a set of orders from Arthur—a tone he knew _very well_ coming from that voice.

The sounds of footsteps came closer to the door, and Merlin leapt out of the way when the door swung open. Arthur raised an eyebrow at his sprawled state by the side of the doorway. Merlin looked away, knowing Arthur knew that he’d been eavesdropping on the conversation. Arthur closed the door with a smirk and leaned against it: legs apart, hips forward, hands down his side, and gave him a meaningful look that he understood well. Merlin crawled forward till he was craning his neck to watch Arthur’s face, right between Arthur’s legs. He smiled coyly, before pressing an open mouth against the hard line evident in Arthur’s trousers.

A thumb caressed from his cheeks to the tip of his ears. A hand wrapped in his hair as laces were undone, and Merlin was wrapping his mouth around Arthur. He worked along the length slowly, taking as much as he could before pulling back up, then back down again. His own need was rising. The rumbles of Arthur’s moans thundered to his fingers wrapped at Arthur’s hips. Merlin looked up through his lashes to see the slack-jaw posture of Arthur’s face. He lavished his tongue expertly around the member in his mouth, and it got Arthur to look down, while he was looking up. Those fingers travelled back to his cheeks, hollowed out with the force of his suction, and Arthur pressed to feel himself beneath.

It was enough, and Merlin had done this act numerous times to get ready for the flood of bitter and salty fluid in his mouth. He swallowed as he reached one hand down to take care of his own need. Merlin pulled off Arthur after the prince came back down from his climax and leaned his head against Arthur’s hip. His hand moved up and down with increasing speed, as Arthur threaded a hand in his hair, the other trailing the shell of his ear. Merlin could feel Arthur’s eyes on him, watching, and it only spurred his hips to rock into his hand. He was panting against Arthur when he widened his legs apart even more. Finally, his body stilled, his hand caught some of the slick that was spattering onto the floor. Merlin slumped forward, hands pressed against the door, his body against the familiar warmth of heat that seeped through Arthur’s clothes.

There was a tug at his hair, motioning for Merlin to look up. He found himself caught in Arthur’s gaze, barely hearing, “You should get dressed.” It was accompanied by soft strokes against his cheeks, and Merlin knew it was not a dismissal. He laid a kiss against the junction of bare skin between the hips and groin, before pulling away to gather his clothes. They share a contented smile with each other.

 

The second time he watched the soldiers prepare for the march towards battle was through the window of his hut, closer to the army’s former campsite. The ground has changed; soil and dirt were bare under the sun, most of the grass flattened to the ground. He imagined some of their crops may have suffered as well. Yet somehow they had more food than when Kanan was around. They would survive the winter. Arthur didn’t leave them empty-handed.

Merlin turned away from the growing emptiness of the field, to sort out his home. There were clothes that needed washing, and the chill in the air indicated that he would need more blankets for the night. The thought of morning frost and snowy hills reminded him that the pile of wood, at the corner of his hut, was inadequate for winter season. He’d have to go out to get wood. The hectic activities appeared to have encompassed the whole village: men, women, and children helping out where they could. Merlin felt assured to walk out to the hill behind his home without an axe in hand.

He felt engrossed by the path he took. He knew the exact place he met Arthur, and the spot where Osric had died. Merlin reached the top of the hill, and it was only a few more steps before he reached the tree line. It would have been fewer steps when they were running.

Merlin turned around watching everything from afar, taking in the scene before him. There were a number of thoughts to wonder. The 'what ifs'? He wondered what would have happened if the arrows path hadn’t been true, then Osric would have kept running with Merlin in tow, and Merlin would have had to make his way back. What if he hadn’t been able to make it back? There were so many ways things could have gone differently, if he’d allowed his imagination to run. Yet he couldn’t imagine Arthur ruling like Kanan and his men. Merlin couldn’t imagine this one man handling his body like others had before him.

As Merlin walked farther into the woods, the sounds of the army could still be heard, but they were only echoes reaching out to the distance. He was far away now, daydreaming in the middle of the woods. He shouldn’t have allow himself to be gone too long.

A survey of the ground told him there weren’t enough branches of wood to pick-up. So Merlin looked up and called upon his magic. A few branches severed off a couple of trees, his aim was always wild and spontaneous. His control was non-existent, which seemed to extend to his life, as he hadn’t expected the next turn of events. Arthur made things unpredictable.

The sharp intake of breath was a surprise to him and Merlin whirled around to find Arthur staring at him in shock. For the first time, Merlin saw fury in those eyes, before it shuttered away. The world held its breath along with Merlin. They stared at one another in abject horror—maybe even fear. Merlin didn’t want to move, afraid for the hand Arthur would place on the hilt of his sword. He feared the violent action.

Instead, Arthur’s hands stayed steadfastly at his side. His eyes watched him, making assessments. Merlin felt unsure, the way Arthur was withdrawn from revealing anything. When he spoke, Merlin was startled by the deep voice of a future king.

“You should know that the use of magic in Camelot is forbidden.” Arthur continued to watch, and when Merlin started to understand, he continued, “It is subject to the penalty of death.” There was pain in Arthur’s voice as he said those last few words, before he unsteadily walked away.

Merlin was left unsure what to do.

 

//^\\\THE MONTHS//^\\\

  


  
1 month   


Merlin still thought about it, if there was anything he could have done: explained himself, explained his abilities, and understand the death sentence he was unknowingly faced with. It was out of his hands.

Over the past few days, he heard snippets about the war, a few small battles that entailed losses and wins. There were mostly wins, but it was still too early. He listened to the older villagers talk about battles before Merlin’s time, how men were conscripted into Cenred’s army and never returned. Only two men from their village left with Camelot’s army and they had volunteered.

He did his best to learn more about Camelot from the other villagers, since they had spoken with the knights and soldiers more so than he did. Editha was able to tell him the most, after she stopped making jovial remarks about him and Arthur, when she soon realized when she couldn’t get the rise of embarrassment from him anymore. Despite awkward silences, Merlin was able to gather and put all the information together. He learned that their new king was Uther Pendragon and that there was no queen—lost at Arthur’s birth. Therefore, the Prince had no siblings. Yet the king had a ward, the Lady Morgana, who has been described to be exceptionally beautiful if not ailing from poor night’s sleep. Most importantly, Merlin learned about the ban on magic; how King Uther held a hatred towards magic, and the zero tolerance he had for it. Merlin could feel the phantom axe at the back of his neck every time he thought about it.

And what did Arthur even mean before he left; was it a warning, or a death sentence, maybe another set of instructions? Breaking it down, Arthur leaving a set of vague instructions was ridiculous. The Prince had no problem telling him what to do during his stay in Ealdor. He wouldn’t have had any qualms when he was leaving. Especially when Merlin was complying more readily with Arthur, the longer he was by his side—to a degree.

He could also disregard the sentence of death, because Arthur had his sword with him, so why wait? If a raider was displeased, they didn’t hold back on their punishments. They gave punishments freely and easily. He couldn’t imagine what would make nobility any different, or a prince from upholding his father’s law.

If it was a warning, then he was lost about his choices, because Merlin didn’t even know what he was, or if he was the only one. His control over the magic was little, even less during the prospects of danger. Something inside him said that his abilities were more instinctual for him, like breathing. His magic was a natural act—a freak natural act. There was nowhere for him to learn magic before Arthur and the prospect seemed to be even further away under the rule of Camelot.

The worst of it was that Merlin wouldn’t change his week with Arthur, or the war that called the Prince’s presence. He couldn’t imagine what other people were going through closer to the inner kingdom. But he knew what his village had been through. He loved a mother, who would look at him with pride despite her own tarnish. He knew the intimate details of a life being passed between men. He handled the loss of his mother and his best friend. Yet he wasn’t sure about the future.

Merlin was sure that the people of Ealdor wouldn’t have thought they could attain this much hope, after decades of raiders, compliance, starvation and having nowhere else to go. And now two men went off to fight a war, that most seemed to believe as a greater good for their village. Merlin couldn’t understand where to place Camelot: as a good kingdom that would lead them to prosperity, or a disaster waiting to happen.

Or, maybe he was being cynical, a death sentence severing his ability to make a decision.

 

  
2 month   


Osric’s hand print was fading to nothing. Arthur’s marks were beginning to disappear as well, despite receiving them after. Merlin shaped his hands to where Arthur had placed them. If he twisted just right he could see how his long fingers extended beyond Arthur’s bruises. The heat from his own hands didn’t feel the same, but he could just imagine what he wanted. It worked like magic; he could feel a warm breath on his neck, and a solid wall of heat along his back. Yet his bed was still a tad more uncomfortable, and his hut was filled with a barren chill. Merlin snorted at himself, turning over in his small bed. One week with Arthur, and he was already spoiled.

He’s had a hard time sleeping these couple of months, too used to a warm body by his side. A few of the villagers understood this, going through the same ordeal. They had the same bags under their eyes. Merlin noticed a few shacking up together, friends comforting one another in order to get some sleep. Eventually, they’d have to learn the new routine. He had noticed two people in particular becoming involved. It was a good sign—he took it as such.

Sometimes Merlin waited for another set of raiders to come. But then he’d think of Arthur. Arrogant and noble Arthur would easily take care of any raiders. He would come at the hours of dusk, and tenderly take care of him.

 

  
3 month   


He kept thinking about Arthur more and more. It was annoying really. Instead of putting all of his focus on Ealdor’s reconstruction, Merlin worried for him. The last he heard Camelot’s forces were at a stalemate with Cenred’s. An impasse where neither moved forward or back, but were both kept in hold, waiting for the other to give. Merlin worried about other things too.

Merlin worried about whether Arthur could have sensed the magic within him. If others could see this as well, or if the Prince was just gifted and taught to see an enemy of Camelot when he was first capable.

Merlin was an enemy of no one. He couldn’t do anything for Ealdor when he feared himself, often wondering if he was capable of more. Arthur seemed to think so, or that’s what he assumed. Yet if he was supposed to be a powerful sorcerer, he was already disappointed. When Arthur had caught him, Merlin had merely been aiming for only one of the branches but ended up shaving off several.

Arthur said there was something about him. Merlin wished it was true, because he couldn’t shrug the feeling of wanting more. He’d just tamped it down with the raiders, so no one would get hurt, because someone had always suffered after the act of rebellion. Now they were free to make choices with no one to hurt them, and Merlin couldn’t choose.

At least in the end, the only person he could hurt was himself.

 

  
4 month   


He wrapped the blanket around his head in embarrassment as his neighbours’ voices carried easily into his hut. Their simple wooden bed creaked with ferocity, along with their groans. Merlin couldn’t help but compare them with him and Arthur. Undoubtedly, people in Ealdor had heard him those nights, his groans louder than Arthur’s. Or maybe it was because Merlin had never heard his own voice in the throes of ecstasy. Arthur had seemed very insistent in hearing it. He could always remember feeling the complete excitement under Arthur’s skin, wanting to burst its way into him, and leave him gasping for more. His pleasure had excited Arthur. It meant something to the Prince, if the lowly commoner received satisfaction from him.

Arthur loved to kiss him.

It still made him embarrassed that the other villagers knew such intimate details about him. More so when they noticed him over the months of the village’s restoration, as they called him ‘clumsy’ Merlin.

 

  
5 month   


He had toiled over months about Arthur, trying to figure out how a man broke his expectations in the course of a week, and put everything off-balance in his world. He felt that he was circling around the answer, passing over it, but never saw with total clarity. So it was in a rather mundane task, that he had his epiphany. Merlin was trying to get the pigs back in their pen when he made the realization:

He loved Arthur, and he would give everything he could for him.

But how much would he want to give?

 

  
6 month   


He didn’t believe he could give up his magic for Arthur. The thought of it twisted something inside of him. Merlin wanted both. He was selfish and it had been years when something was _his_ \--then taken away for his defiance. He couldn’t help but feel that he should get both in return. He wanted them bad enough.

 

  
7 month   


A scream outside woke him up. It was still early morning, but his night clothes didn’t let the chill affect him by much. Merlin rushed out to see the commotion, his heart thudded and his mind thought about raiders, “again, not again.”

Merlin stepped out to find a celebration. Word had traveled to them about the success of Cenred’s fall.

Merlin couldn’t understand it. He couldn’t see why they were celebrating, didn’t see the difference between now and those months ago. They already belonged to Camelot. He, like everyone, had enforced all their hope to this one kingdom.

 

//^\\\ **THE SECOND** //^\\\

 **Day 1**

Merlin was trying to use the axe to chop wood, finally running through the entire winter supply. He had needed to be more careful about his use of magic, hence the axe. It would be easier to use magic, but he needed to restrain himself before he got too comfortable. Yet the axe was now stuck in the trunk of the tree. He wasn’t even aiming for the trunk. The task of collecting wood had become annoyingly difficult. Since the axe wasn’t coming out of the trunk, and the sun was disappearing beyond the horizon, Merlin allowed saving himself the time and trouble.

He outstretched his hand towards the canopy of the trees. He breathed, attempting to concentrate on the branches he wanted to break. He could feel a flare push outwards. The result was five branches snapping off slightly explosively, falling to the ground. Yet, none of the other branches had a mark. He smiled to himself, proud that his small amounts of practice had paid off. His success always gave him a joy. Yet the moment of glee was sucked right out of him. He thought he’d been alone.

“You should be more careful.”

Merlin whirled around already knowing who was behind him. Arthur’s voice was an indiscernible heat. The Prince looked tired, and weary. Merlin looked at Arthur’s face, and the uncertainty there. He felt the same way. He didn’t want to continue to look and see Arthur reach for his sword. He hoped that Arthur wouldn’t kill him, but he was not sure that another chance existed beyond the second.

“I try,” Merlin said, and waited.

The leaves rapidly crunched underneath the steps of Arthur’s feet. He looked up to see Arthur much closer, gaining upon him. Merlin held himself still, resolute to see this through. He wouldn’t back down because Arthur told him to.

Arthur’s hand wrapped tight around his arm, the other was around his hip, pushing him backwards until he slammed against a tree. The axe was right by his head. It figured that Arthur could easily pull it out, when he had to unsuccessfully struggle. Merlin stared as the axe was thrown into the bushes.

The relief Merlin felt then was liberating, despite being pinned to a tree. Arthur’s teeth bit into his neck, his lips hot, and his tongue moist. Merlin was moving his hips against Arthur’s. He kept his head tilted back, allowing the Prince to mark him. Their reunion was wild, desperate, and untameable.

Merlin thought it was like his first time and at the same time it wasn’t. Arthur pressed him into the ground. He removed their clothes, but it was not in tattered strips. He was not struggling against Arthur, because Merlin wanted this—wanted Arthur to take him. There was no mocking laughter, and he was not biting his lip to stop himself from screaming. Merlin allowed Arthur to conquer and rule his body over and over, because he had already surrendered to him long before. He watched hope grow and flourish in Ealdor; he was caught off-guard to find it in himself.

Everything Arthur did made him feel good. It made him look to a better future.

Their hips were pressed together, rubbing until they both found elation in each other. It was only in the calm that Merlin realized Arthur hadn’t walked out wearing any armour.

“What were you doing out here?” Merlin was mostly saying this to himself, but Arthur answered nonetheless.

“I asked a few villagers about your whereabouts. They said you were out gathering firewood.” Arthur chuckled. “Figures you’d be useless with an axe.”

“Thanks for the offer of help.” Merlin tried to make his retort sound incensed. “Were you standing behind me for long? Because that’s very creepy of you sire.” Arthur bit the lobe of his ear in retaliation. Merlin laughed, his arms wrapped around Arthur’s broad shoulders. He closed his eyes, feeling kisses make their way down his neck.

 

When they made it back to Ealdor, Merlin expected to see the massive section of tents set up like months before. Of course now, the crop fields would make that difficult. Instead, there were six tents set up, just on the outskirts. They barely took up room. When he reached the village, he could overhear that some of the villagers gave room for some soldiers to reside. It went to say for the number of tents, yet the amount of knights and soldiers were still fewer. Incidentally, Arthur had his old dwelling back. The village leader willingly, and profusely asked Arthur to dwell in his home till his departure at the week’s end.

The sad news was that, of the two men that had left Ealdor to join the fight, only one man came back. Merlin watched Arthur, as he fetched water from the well, personally give condolence to the relatives, and congratulations of marriage for the one that had returned.

Merlin would have like to think he was being subtle as he watched Arthur, but the elbow into his side, the giggling by Editha, and the women around her said otherwise.

As evening set, Ealdor was in the throes of celebration: honouring the knights, and celebrating an engagement. So there was no one to see Merlin make his way to Arthur’s dwelling without the escort of a guard. He allowed himself inside where the Prince was already waiting.

 

 **Day 2**

Merlin was learning. He was never this forthright with Arthur, but he was tempted to see the change of his body. Merlin traced the canvas of new and old scars on Arthur. His fingers, lips and tongue followed the disruptions of smooth skin. Arthur’s fingers pressed into him as his other hand felt the shape of bones and strong muscles.

If the shutters were open, the sun’s light would pour through, warming their skins. Instead they opted for privacy, and the darkness of the bedroom.

He would later ask Arthur to tell him the stories of each scar. They ranged from tales of bravery, strength, sadness, laughter, and even embarrassment, which had Merlin in peals of laughter until Arthur would smother him with a pillow.

When Arthur asked about his scars in turn, Merlin did his best to sidetrack the conversation. There was nothing good to say. Arthur’s eyes said he understood with a simple look.

In the evening, they bathed then ventured out to a second night of celebration between the villagers. The bonfire lit up the night, sparks flying into the air along with the sounds of mirth, hilarity and song.

 

 **Day 3**

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“You said practising magic was illegal under Camelot’s law. So why?”

They were both sitting at the edge of a river, wrapped in blankets to protect them from the cold. The only sounds were of night animals and running water. Above them, the stars were silent in their guiding light. Merlin had just learned how to use the sky, if he ever got lost (“Because he was bound to,” Arthur joked).

It was a while before Arthur said anything, but Merlin waited patiently, knowing he’d eventually respond. “I’ve seen many things. At the start of this war, and during. I’ve had people attack and trick me with magic. It only affirmed my father’s belief within me. But before this war...”

“What?” Merlin prompted.

“I am conflicted.” He gave a disparaging laugh. “I smuggled a druid boy out of Camelot. My father wanted him executed. The boy and his guardian were simply gathering supplies. During the war, I’ve been healed with the use of magic, as well. It’s a secret between the healer and me, for obvious reasons. You might learn a thing or two.”

Arthur’s knuckles smoothed down the side of this face. Merlin followed the motion of it. “You’ve could have fought back. You didn’t have to do what I said.”

“Yes I did. It’d be too risky otherwise.” He couldn’t have done it against the raiders; his life would have been at too much of a risk. And he wouldn’t hurt a good man, no matter how insufferable he was.

Arthur just shook his head. He didn’t want Arthur feeling guilt for nothing, so he told him so. Merlin pressed against Arthur’s shoulders, motioning him to lie down. Arthur did so with slight hesitation, but he didn’t ask for any explanations. Merlin crawled on top, sitting astride upon Arthur’s stomach. He leaned forward and kissed Arthur’s lips, moving slowly, as he allowed his magic to undo the laces of their breeches.

“Merlin,” Arthur began to protest in a whisper.

He hushed him. “I’m still open from before.”

It prompted a groan from Arthur, and he allowed Merlin to remove their clothing, to sink down upon an eager arousal, move up and down slowly, garnering soft pants from the both of them.

“Arthur,” Merlin repeated out softly. He felt Arthur’s hands hold his hips, quietly guiding, telling him he was right there with him.

 

 **Day 4**

They came back late from the river, their steps were hazy and languid. The walk woke up their senses. It made Merlin giddy, and Arthur responded with exasperation. But he was smiling too. When they fell into Arthur’s bed they spent the next few minutes kissing, until they fell asleep.

After they woke up, Arthur spent the day talking to the villagers. As Merlin understood, some taxes were to be implemented, they needed to discuss about crop growth, and the need of protection within the area. The thoughts of raiders were always at the back of Ealdorians’ minds.

It was weird for Merlin. He’d been shacked up with Arthur for the past few days, his own bed collecting dust. Editha had somehow managed to sneak up behind him as he watched Arthur perform his duties. She giggled as Merlin stumbled over a rock and left no chance for him to regain his bearing before saying, “I see you’ve spent the last few nights with the Prince,” the smile she gave was rather filthy for a girl, “ _again_.”

He went for an unflustered posture. Merlin only knew Editha through Will and even then didn’t talk to her often. Even less after Will ran off. Yet he was grateful for her presence and the small talks that they did have. She didn’t shy away as much as the others, too stubborn and dauntlessalmost like Will. He understood why she and Will had been so close.

Not getting a response from Merlin, Editha continued on, “So who gets your home when you leave?”

“Are you suggesting stealing my hut from me?” Merlin said, looking at Editha just a little oddly.

“ _I_ don’t plan on marriage anytime soon.” But there was a marriage occurring soon, was the unspoken sentence. Merlin didn’t understand what Editha was getting towards. He would have asked, if Arthur didn’t call him then, asking for something completely inane. As odd as it was, Merlin complied with a roll of his eyes.

 

He understood Editha’s words when the sun had set, eating with Arthur at the table. While the Prince had duties to perform here, he would have to move onto other villages. Arthur would eventually have to return home. His appetite stalled with the epiphany. The sweetness of the bread had grown tasteless.

“What’s wrong?” Arthur asked, as observant as ever.

Merlin froze, having nothing to say. Instead, he smiled, and slinked under the table. He was between Arthur’s legs, deft with his hands, and pulled him out from his breeches. Merlin looked up to see Arthur’s face, and could see that Arthur knew the tactic he was trying to employ. But he let it continue, placing a hand in his hair, and pulled him forward. Merlin did his very best to lick and suck; he heard Arthur’s contented sighs.

When they were in bed, they moaned into each other’s mouths, breathing one another in. Merlin was resolute to have as much of Arthur as he could: slick skin, and unbearable heat. Even after they’d both come, he kept close to Arthur’s side by trapping him on his back, placing his head on Arthur’s chest and an arm around his waist. Just before the lull of sleep, Merlin could hear the rumble of Arthur’s voice reverberate, along with the beat of his heart.

“Tell me tomorrow.”

 

 **Day 5**

They didn’t leave the bed, as Arthur made it in his best interest to torture Merlin for as long as possible. He was dizzy, trying to makes sense of his trembling body. Arthur pushed into him with deep, slow strokes, and all he could do was keen. Then, he’d pull out when his self-control had begun to break. Merlin could feel it, when a thrust became slightly harder, or faster, or when Arthur would groan a certain way. He could only whimper whenever Arthur pulled out, kissing down the length of his back. He thought Arthur was doing this on purpose, because by nature Arthur is nefarious.

When they did finally come, Merlin was too limp. He didn’t make an effort to move. So Arthur simply positioned Merlin in a way that kept him close, as they drifted off to sleep.

The next time they woke up it was mid-afternoon, according to the position of the sun. Merlin would have been content to just eat in the bed, but Arthur wasn’t too agreeable to the ideapropriety, or something. This is how they found themselves laying down on the floor beside the bed, an extra blanket spread out underneath, sharing pieces of smoked meat and loaves of Mrs. Simmons’ freshly made bread between them. Arthur had become apt at throwing strips of meat at Merlin, telling him he needed to eat more. When he had tried to throw his own strip of meat at him, Arthur had simply caught it in his mouth. Together they pealed into laughter. References of doggy manners made the Prince become slightly abhorred of his own behaviour, before forgoing his noble upbringing. They laughed until their chests hurt, and their eyes watered with tears. It lead to slow kisses, that every once in a while had them laughing into each others’ mouths, taking the sound right inside them. It turned into the same slow sex of that morning, Merlin on his back, on the hard ground, warmed by their lounging.

They did eventually make it back to the bed, Merlin half-asleep as he watched Arthur watch him. He barely registered Arthur’s question.

“Who is she?”

It took a while to respond, “Who?”

“That girl.”

Merlin blinked his eyes, trying to understand where Arthur was going. There was only one girl that could come to mind. “Editha.” He saw a twitch in Arthur’s face, a storm in his eyes and contemplated his Prince’s mood.

“And who is Editha?” Arthur finally asked.

“A friend, I guess.” Merlin waited for the tension to fade from Arthur’s face, before he softly teased him, “Were you jealous?”

He scoffed, “Highly unlikely.”

Merlin hummed his disbelief. And because Arthur was nefarious, he tumbled Merlin to the bed, giving him hard and fast strokes. It made him weak, and he ached all over. He imagined himself as one of those new born calves from a few weeks ago, stumbling to get up and move, taking their first steps. It was comfortable.

Merlin needed to remember these moments. The silence between them was secure.

So he heard Arthur perfectly clear when he said, “Come with me.”

There was a pregnant pause, as Merlin tried to rationalize his thoughts. “What?”

“Don’t be daft.” Arthur lightly flicked his ear. “To Camelot. Come with me.”

Merlin blinked several times, knowing this wasn’t a dream, or a fantasy. Arthur was asking him to go with him. Or maybe he was demanding it, as Arthur was so inclined to do.

It didn’t matter. The end result was the same.

 

 **Day 6**

The only time Merlin got up in the day was for food and a bath. Later into the night, Ealdor celebrated again: a bonfire was lit, ale ran freely, and the women danced to claps and cheers. It was a farewell to Arthur and his knights, or maybe an excuse for more celebration, their spirits high in the air.

In private, Editha gave a farewell gift to Merlin: a red scarf to add to his collection. He had grown keen to the fashion during the months of war. Merlin took Editha’s gift gingerly in his hands, like it was a treasure to protect. After Will, Merlin could acknowledge that Editha was possibly his only friend in Ealdor, and for that, Merlin gave her his thanks. If he did ever come back, Merlin was sure Editha would be gone. With the return of a normal village life, Ealdor would now be too small to forever keep their interest.

Arthur was suddenly by his side, non-discreetly taking a hold of his wrist. Editha bowed as she turned away, a final goodbye. Arthur was retiring early with the excuse of a long journey ahead. It was plausible. Yet he dragged Merlin with him back to his bed as well and everyone knew better.

Arthur didn’t do much that night. Merlin guided Arthur’s hand, telling him where to touch him. He guided the hands to his chest, and Arthur thumbed the nipples in an enticing way. A guidance to the neck, and he felt the tendons and muscle beneath the skin. Arthur just ran his hands over Merlin’s body, and softly kissed his lips, until Merlin guided his hand lower. He massaged the muscle between his leg and groin, pushed his fingers between the cheeks of his arse. It was a while before his length was encircled by a wrapped fist that smoothed up and down.

Merlin mirrored Arthur.

They came.

They slept.

 

 **Day 7 >**

Merlin was startled to find the bed empty, the bright morning sun in his face. The empty space was cool beside him. He tried not to worry too much, despite the growing gnaw in his chest. He popped out of bed, hearing the front door slam open, then closed. He was nude, standing in the bedroom doorway, apprehensively watching Arthur gathering clothes and items into a pile. Merlin stepped closer, and realized it was his clothes Arthur was holding. His items Arthur was trying to arrange.

“What are you doing?”

“Merlin, is this really all you have?” Arthur said condescendingly.

He simply laughed. “I’m no king.” He pressed to Arthur’s front and bent down to kiss him. “I’m no prince either.”

“You would never pass for one.” He threw the clothes to the floor. “You can bring whatever you want with you. It won’t be difficult to carry,” he said mockinglymore jokingly.

“Prat,” Merlin whispered, grinning from ear to ear.

Arthur took an appreciative view of his blatant lack of clothes, before stepping back, “get dressed. We’ll be leaving soon.”

“What am I going to do in Camelot?”

“Warm my bed?” Arthur smiled cheekily. Merlin glowered, causing Arthur to laugh. “We’ll think of a proper title when we get there. I’ll find someone for you to stay with.” He said, as an afterthought, “Do you know anyone in Camelot?”

Merlin shifted through his clothes on the ground, unknowingly giving Arthur a very pleasant view of his arse. “I was told once, about a family friend. But I don’t know his name.”

“Well, when we get to Camelot, we can try and find him. There will be a feast. Lots of people there.”

“I doubt my mother knew a noble.”

“It’s a start. Apparently there’s even going to be singing, from a Lady Helen, or so I heard from the drunk messenger the night before. As I understand my father is excited about this.” Arthur stepped forward, grabbing Merlin’s hips and pressed his groin into his rear.

Merlin closed his eyes, feeling the hard line in Arthur’s trousers, and his growing need. “My lord,” he parodied, “we’ll be late.”

“It’ll be quick,” Arthur said, unlacing his breeches.

 

Merlin walked, heading to the pack of horses on the outskirts of the village. It was serene, leaving one home for another. It was an adventure of his own making. It was the accumulation of months, weeks, days, minutes, and seconds to his thoughts, and fighting his desires.

It was the admittance to something more than lust.

As Merlin watched Ealdor grow smaller, sitting on a horse beside Arthur’s, it was giving in to the most sweetest surrender.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Give In, Oh Sweet Surrender](https://archiveofourown.org/works/404549) by [read by lunchee (lunchee)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunchee/pseuds/read%20by%20lunchee)




End file.
